For anyone hoping for some actual plot progression, your wait is officially at an end. Warning for minor character death ahead.
The express arrived in the dead of night. The grand rooms that the Colonel and Marianne shared were set well away from Delaford House's main doors and entryway, and yet the sound of someone's insistent pounding on the door reached them even there.
Christopher was almost instantly awake and alert, his arm instinctively going across Marianne's still slumbering form. A nocturnal interruption of this sort was entirely unheard of at Delaford, and he knew that whoever it was thundering their fist against the doors to the house almost certainly brought bad news with them.
Marianne was slower to wake, but once her heavy-lidded gaze fell on Christopher, who was now hastily climbing out of bed, she too grew alert to the noise. "What can it be?" she asked, and her voice, soft with sleep, seemed to pierce Christopher's heart. He feared the worst: that some malady had found Elinor Ferrars, who was still not expected to have her child for a month or more. Or perhaps Mrs. Dashwood, who was by no means ancient but who was likewise no young woman, had been taken ill.
There was also the painful possibility that John Middleton, his dearest friend, was struck down by some illness. It was to Christopher alone that John had confided an ailment of the heart his doctor had uncovered some year or so since. Although John regarded the matter in his typically off-handed way, Christopher knew well enough how tragically commonplace it was for a man of Sir John Middleton's age to suddenly collapse, his heart giving out without warning.
With these dark possibilities weighing on his mind, Christopher hastily crossed to Marianne's side after donning his dressing gown. "Let us hope it is only someone with business they believe too important to wait until morning," he said quietly, and he was glad that the room was sufficiently dark to hide the doubt in his eyes. "Wait for me here if you can, Marianne," he implored, and with a decisive tie of the dressing gown's sash, he marched out into the corridor.
He knew Delaford well enough that he required no candle to light his way. It was a matter of moments before he emerged into the gallery that led to the staircase connecting the upper floor to the house's spacious entryway, and dim candlelight greeted him then. The knocking had stopped not long after he'd left their rooms, and as he set foot upon the staircase, he saw that Harrison and two footmen, all hastily and, by necessity, clumsily clad, had opened the door to greet the stranger there.
As expected, the man bore a letter for Colonel Christopher Brandon. Christopher took it impatiently, leaving his butler to pay the rider for his services. The letter's seal had been hastily applied, and there was no written return to give away the sender's identity. He broke the seal with his hands, his eyes alighting upon the missive's contents.
His heart sank with every word he read. Dear God. Dear God, it couldn't be.
"Christopher?"
Marianne's voice barely penetrated through the fog of shock and grief that had seized upon his thoughts. Of course Marianne had not stayed safe above stairs. He had known she would gladly face whatever the trouble was at his side, and God as his witness, he had never been more grateful for his brave wife than now.
Without a thought to the servants standing but feet from them, Christopher drew in a ragged breath as he reached for his wife and crushed her to him in an embrace. For one long, interminable moment, he clung to her, as though he could take her strength and make it his own.
As quickly as he had grasped her, he let her go again, handing over the letter while his mind sought desperately for some sense of order.
"Oh, Christopher. How could this have happened? I am so sorry. Poor Eliza. Poor, poor Eliza!"
Even after all this time, it was arrestingly odd to hear his Marianne utter the name of the woman he had thought himself so desperately in love with, many years ago. Now, sadly, she spoke not of the girl he had once loved and lost, but of her daughter, who shared her mother's name and, now it would seem, her tragic fate, as well.
A simple cold, the letter had said. It had appeared to be only a cold, and by the time anyone suspected it might be worse, his ward, Eliza, was dead. It defied all reason. Eliza, dead? She was only a girl, and a healthy one at that, for all Christopher knew. How could this be?
Aware of the servants nearby, Christopher turned to address his butler. "Harrison, have the coach readied. I'm leaving within the hour."
Harrison was all dutiful deference as he bowed. "Of course, sir," he agreed, and he and the footmen immediately dispersed, gone so quietly that it was almost as though they had never been there to begin with.
"Christopher, it is so late. Must you leave now?" His wife's gentle but imploring words drew Christopher's attention once more. His heart had seemingly turned to stone within the last few moments, giving him the ability to decide and act and do whatever was necessary in the wake of this unexpected tragedy.
"She is my ward, Marianne. It is my responsibility to see to all arrangements now, and…" Dear God, Eliza's child. What was to be done with her?
Marianne twined her fingers around his arms. "Yes, yes, I know; and you are right that you must go. But it will only be four hours at most before sunrise. Surely it will be safer to wait to depart until then?"
But his mind was already made up. He was focused on his mission now, keenly aware that he had failed Eliza—both the woman and her daughter—yet again. There was no time to consider trifling concerns such as the best time to begin a journey.
Already Christopher was mounting the stairs, fully Colonel Brandon now. A part of him was aware that Marianne deserved better than to be left behind in the foyer in this way, but there was truly no time to waste. He did not know the people he had entrusted Eliza to well enough for his comfort. For all he knew, her little household staff would be too busy running away with the silver or hastily applying for new employment rather than properly seeing to the child Eliza had left behind.
His valet was already there when Christopher returned to his rooms, no doubt having been alerted by Harrison that clothing and other necessities would need to be packed with all due haste. With a nod in his direction, Christopher went to hastily dress himself. He moved with such quick efficiency that he was already putting on his boots when Marianne reappeared in the doorway.
She clutched her wrapper tightly about her, and those brilliant blue eyes of hers were filled not with sympathy, as Christopher had expected, but determination. "Christopher, wait," she insisted, and when he moved as if to step around her, intending only to reach for his jacket, he was surprised to find her stepping squarely into his path.
Drawing in a deep breath, he paused, forcing himself to treat his wife with the warmth that she deserved. "I am sorry for my haste, Marianne. I assure you that I will travel as safely as possible, only you must understand that I will not be moved in this. I have a duty to attend to my ward in all things, even—" he could not help but stumble slightly over these words—"even in the event of her death."
Marianne nodded. "Yes, of course. I won't ask you again to wait. But I must ask you…" She glanced hastily at the valet, seeming reluctant to speak in his presence. Apparently deciding that it was worth the risk, she looked to her husband once more. "I ask that you bring Eliza's child here, Christopher. Bring her home to Delaford."
It was clear from the widening of Christopher's eyes that he was surprised, perhaps even astonished by her suggestion. Marianne did not know what to expect for his response. This was all so unexpected, so dreadful and new that there was no easy way of knowing what they would do next. But Marianne had already made up her mind, and she, even more so than her husband, was nearly impossible to be swayed once she did.
Marianne was, of course, aware of Christopher's ward, as well as her young child. Emma, she recalled. That was the child's name. The babe must be less than two years of age. She was, lest any of them should ever forget, the natural child of Willoughby, who had so callously refused to acknowledge the child or the fact that he had had an equal hand in creating her alongside Eliza.
But that mattered little now. The girl was not only without a father, but now without a mother as well. The world, Marianne understood, could be a very cruel place indeed, particularly to women who lived in circumstances beyond their control. Eliza had been obliged to live outside the well-structured confines of elevated society. But her child, with no acknowledged father and now no mother to protect her better interests, faced a far bleaker future.
"Not here," Christopher said quietly, and he took Marianne by the hand. He led her straightaway out of the room and along the corridor, remaining totally silent until they had reached his study. As he shut the door behind them, Marianne noted absently that Harrison must have anticipated his master might have need of his study before his departure, for candles had been lit and a small but welcome fire blazed on the far side of the room.
Her husband gestured to a chair, but Marianne declined with a quick shake of her head. She was too full of nervous energy to sit, and she wanted to be on level footing, so to speak, for the conversation that was ahead. "Before you say anything, please understand that I have thought this through," she said firmly, launching her opening salvo.
"In the ten minutes since the letter arrived?" Christopher scoffed quietly, though there was little heat in it. "Marianne, what you are suggesting is of enormous consequence, and the ramifications from such a decision will reverberate throughout the entire course of our lives. You cannot have possibly thought through every detail, every implication."
Her brow raised regally, Marianne willed away a show of temper that was clamoring to break free. "What else is there to do?" she insisted. "We cannot entrust the child to strangers. Eliza was entrusted to others, and see how that has turned out!"
Christopher visibly winced, and Marianne regretted her choice of words instantly. "No, it is not your fault, Christopher—it is not. You did everything in your power that you could to help her. You were a gentleman and a bachelor, and to have a young girl in your home, with no apparent familial connection to you, would have been questioned. I understand this."
"But do you also understand that bringing the grandchild of a woman widely reputed to have once been my lover would be just as questionable, Marianne? Do you not understand what it would do to you? What they would say?"
Dear Christopher. Even in this unhappiest of moments, his concern was not for himself, but for those he loved most. Marianne did not doubt it. But she also did not doubt that, once he understood the situation in its entirety, he'd see that the best for the child must be considered first.
"Who knows?"
"What?" Christopher said, appearing to be caught off guard. "Only you and myself know of Eliza's death, excepting her household."
"No, I mean who knows what Eliza is to you? Who knows who Emma really is?"
That gave him pause. "Very few, I grant you. Aside from yourself, your sister, and anyone else you two might have chosen to confide in, only Sir John knows."
"Not Mrs. Jennings?" Marianne felt it was important to inquire. As well meaning as Mrs. Jennings was, no one could deny that the woman simply could not resist herself when there was delicious gossip to be had. Though she would likely keep the secrets of a dear friend like Colonel Brandon, it would be safer not to risk it.
"Not even Mrs. Jennings knows." Exhaling heavily, Christopher pinched the bridge between his nose. "I see where you are going with this, Marianne. You mean to bring Emma home under a pretense of her being someone else."
"Yes," Marianne instantly confirmed, moving closer to place her hands on his arms, her face tilted up towards his imploringly. "I'd invent a distant cousin myself, but John and Fanny would see through that in a moment were they to hear of it, which they surely would. You, then, must be the one."
Appearing as though his mind were still reeling, Christopher looked questioningly at her. "You want me to invent a cousin now, is it?"
Marianne nodded. "A very distant one, whose recent death, along with that of his wife's, has left his young daughter without means of protection. It has been done many times over, you know. Many fine, upstanding families provide for wards, Christopher. We shall do the same, but not from afar. Bring Emma here. Please."
His gaze was intense as he regarded her, the shadows from flickering candlelight making his eyes appear unusually dark. His hand rose, delicately cupping her cheek. "You are one of the best women I have ever known, Marianne. Your heart, and your good intent, does you much credit. But you are forgetting something of infinite importance."
"No," Marianne said quietly. "I am not. For of course, there is Willoughby."
"Yes," Christopher said, a wealth of tightly bound emotion behind that simple, quiet word. "For all his faults, Willoughby is not an unintelligent man. He will be quick to notice that the young child at Delaford is the same age as the daughter he so cavalierly abandoned. I don't doubt that word of Eliza's death may even reach his ears, eventually, and then he will know for certain."
"But what can he do? Do you really think he'll care, when he never claimed responsibility of Emma in the first place?"
Stroking his thumb across Marianne's cheek, Christopher hummed in response. "His renewed interest in you might very well make him care, Marianne. We don't know what his intentions are, and we would be wise to expect that he might suddenly have a care."
Marianne clasped his hand, holding it to her cheek. "No, that cannot be. You know as well as I that in this, he has no power. Willoughby may claim to have no care for what society thinks of him, but his actions have always proved otherwise. He will not want the world—or rather, polite society—to know that he fathered a child out of wedlock and then abandoned both mother and child. He will say nothing."
"I care less of what he will say than what he might do," Christopher insisted.
Giving his hand a final squeeze, Marianne turned away from him, walking closer toward the fire. "This is right thing for us to do, Christopher. It is right that we give this child a home. We both long for children, and here is a child before us, who will no doubt long for the love of good parents." She looked back to him, pleadingly. "Please, please tell me that you will at least consider it."
Christopher appeared arrested for a moment before lurching suddenly into action, swiftly crossing the room and taking Marianne into his arms long enough to press a chaste but insistent kiss to her forehead. "I will consider it, Marianne. And now, I must go."
"Yes," she agreed. "Yes, you must go. Please, have a care and travel safely."
"I will. I love you," Christopher said, and then he was gone, leaving Marianne alone in the study.
Four days later, Christopher Brandon returned to Delaford after an unexpected, but brief, absence. With him was a young child, the daughter of a distant cousin and now, it seemed, his ward.
Mrs. Jennings herself, who knew the Brandons very well indeed, insisted to any and all who would listen that both the Colonel and his delightful young wife were quite taken with the child, and very much pleased to welcome her into their home, despite the very sad circumstances surrounding the sudden death of her parents. It was, she said again and again in the days that followed, a great joy to see young persons springing up in the neighborhood, and was surely to be only the first of many children yet to come at Delaford.